
FT MEADE 

GenCol 1 







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ONE AND ALL 


BY 

Rett a Augusta Garland 





The Schauer printing Studio 
SANTA BARBARA 
1922 

















Copyright 192 1 
by 

Rowena Garland 


©C1.A692345 



1 i iS22 


i 






CONTENTS 


Santa Barbara Published in Sunset Monthly 

May , 1904 

The Mayfairs Published in Overland Monthly 

April , 1893 

Shakespeare Published in School Magazine 

February, 1904 

The Camper Published in Sunset Magazine 

June, 1909 

Far Afield 
Some Day 

Turn Thine Eyes From the Past 

Cover Design California Scene 


Portrait of Author 
































SANTA BARBARA 


This dream in blue of islands, sea, and skies 

Is joy supreme to our awakened eyes. 

A harbor blue as old Toledo blade, 

Enwrapt in haze, to mystify, and fade 

The markings of the waves. Mountains with- 
drawn 

Into themselves, enchanted at the dawn. 

And whispering proud tales, dim in mirage of 
air, 

Of wondrous spells and gnomes and grottoes 
fair. 

The landscape is in smoky blue arrayed, 

Unrolled in shades of blue, remade 

In subter forms the city rooftree yields 

To craftiness of haze that Faery-Land reveals. 


C 10 ] 


THE MAYFAIRS 


For it is impossible that either 
evil or good should be durable; 
and hence it follows that , the evil 
having lasted long, the good can- 
not be far off. — Don Quixote de 
la Mancha. 

Memory is truly catholic; the guests 
of that inner circle, of those we have 
remembered well, were not in every 
instance chosen for beauty, or wisdom, 
or worth; but often for reasons we 
cannot fathom. Yet as I call up one 
personality after another that is mine 
by right of remembrance, I find that 
I have a goodly number of rare human 
specimens. 

This and more came into my head 
while turning the leaves of an old 
book of exercises for the piano, which 
had on the fly-leaf the following in- 
scription: “Began music with Mrs. 
Mayfair, June, 1878, in Santa Bar- 
bara.” 

Dear little woman! with what 

[ it ] 


The Mayfairs 


patience and tact she led her pupil 
along the path of art! for whereas 
her clever fingers could almost always 
find a very pretty air in my exercises, 
I could find only time! time! time! — 
eighth notes, quarter notes, and half, 
— half notes, quarter notes, and eighth, 
— varied with whole notes and rests. 
She told me once that I had a good 
ear for time; if more could have been 
said, she would have said it, for she 
had a habit of looking on the bright 
side for others as well as for herself. 

Cheerfulness, indeed, was one of 
her ruling traits. There is a cheer- 
fulness that seems to rest only on 
health and vanity, and wearies one; 
but hers was not of that sort, — rather 
a “soft invincibility,” which must 
react from the manifold trials of life, 
as the birds mount upward. 

I have sometimes doubted whether 
Captain Mayfair was quite worthy of 
her, so many of the burdens of their 
dual life fell to her share. But he 
thought her the best and brighest 
woman ever planned, and that goes 
far with wives; and when I consider 
[ 12 ] 


The Mayfairs 


his unvarying loyalty, and how for his 
sake she could meet poverty halfway, 
I feel very kindly toward him, and 
reproach myself that I have ever let 
the thought enter my head that he 
might have done more for her. Had 
he not lost one arm in the Confed- 
erate army? and besides, he was a 
man of few resources and robust pre- 
judices. 

Mr. Marley — whose lot joined the 
Mayfairs’ on Fig Avenue, and who 
sold milk-shake and other temper- 
ance drinks, taffy, and peanuts, on 
State Street — had found out that the 
Captain had his prejudices. For had 
he not offered him a good chance be- 
hind his counter, and had not the 
Captain rejected it? When Marley 
came out one morning to the little 
division fence in shirt sleeves, his face 
shining with its recent washing and 
with good-will, and proposed that the 
Captain work for him, the Captain 
only muttered gruffly between his 
teeth, “I don’t know as I’ve any 
calling that way,” and would say 
nothing further on the matter. 


[ 13 ] 


The Mayfairs 


Now Mr. Marley regarded his 
work as elevated by the cause he 
served, — the temperance cause; be- 
sides, he had a thriving business, and 
when he handed the foaming tumblers 
over the counter, he beamed with 
conscious rectitude and an honest pride 
in his ability. But in Captain May- 
fair’s eyes, the little stand, wedged 
in between two buildings on State 
Street, was only a peanut stand, and 
a peanut stand it must remain; and 
Marley was little better than a street 
peddler. 

And Mrs. Mayfair, who had been 
told of the project by Mrs. Marley 
over the garden fence, loyally dis- 
avowed to herself that she had wished 
the Captain to accept; and speedily 
forgot that a vision of a little home 
of their own had flitted across her 
mind. 

And the Captain forgot too, and 
never regretted, although it had been 
a really good chance. 

But Joe Dawson, who owned a 
livery stable and hired the Captain 
sometimes to tend it, when he wished 

[ 14 ] 


The Mayfairs 


to be off training his high-stepping 
horse on the race-track, — Dawson had 
found out that the Captain had his 
strong points. 

“Do you believe he can manage the 
kind of men you have to handle ?” 
Dawson’s wife said to him one day: 
“he’s but one arm, ye know, and kin- 
der feeble.” 

“He ain’t one o’yer ’fraid kind, 
withal he looks so dumpish some- 
times,” Dawson answered her. “Yer 
oughter saw ’im when that ar reckless 
chap Rowlin brought back Bud with 
foam enough on his sides to make 
a fleece on. I came in when the 
Cap’n about finished him. I tell ye, 
a flash o’ his eye is worth more’n all 
the muscle of two or three such brag- 
gadocios as that ar Jim! though’t 
would take two of the Cap’n to make 
a shadow. There’s spirit in this 
yere Cap’n, but it takes an idea to 
rouse him. I ain’t been so stirred 
myself for a coon’s age. It was on- 
feelin’ treatment for any human bein’ 
to give to any hoss, — especially Bud; 
and I’ low the Cap’n can’t abide that. 

[ 15 ] 


The Mayfairs 


There ain’t one man in a hundred can 
discriminate a difference! now the 
Cap’n can discriminate a difference, — 
though he’s as full o’ crotchets as an 
egg is full o’ meat.” 

The Captain spent many hours at 
the stable, fussing with the horses he 
could not own nor even drive; but it 
did not bring much money into the 
home exchequer. Dawson hired him 
only when he himself was away. 

When Mrs. Mayfair had been first 
brought face to face with the problem 
of earning a living, she had prepared 
herself for teaching. She had review- 
ed her boarding-school accomplish- 
ments, especially music; and an aged 
uncle had given her, to meet the world 
with, a course in the classics. 

She told me once, in referring to 
her past, that she “went through the 
classics.” How the phrase thrilled 
me! It was so all embracing! After 
much pondering, it remained an enig- 
ma with me how one small head could 
carry such propelling force. Neither 
could I comprehend the familiar way 
in which she told off on her fingers 

[ ] 


The Mayfairs 


the gods of Olympus. A reverent im- 
agination had given the ancient mas- 
terpieces an unearthly grandeur, to be 
apprehended by few, and by those 
only when the mind was at its high- 
est tension. 

I have no means of judging of her 
attainments. I never knew of her 
having a pupil in Latin or Greek. 
When she first made herself known 
to us, she left a card which read, 
“Mrs. R. C. Mayfair, Teacher of 
Music and the Classics.” But the 
card was yellowed by age, and the 
“Music” was underscored for emphas- 
is; so I take it that the “Classics” had 
fallen into disuse. 

In music, vocal or instrumental, she 
had a birdlike instinct for melody. 
She said that music came natural to 
her — as natural, I do not doubt, as 
ease of manner. She had not the mas- 
ter’s range of emotions, and grasp of 
sublime ideas; she could not, like Abt 
Vogler, build a structure “broad on 
the roots of things”; neither did she 
have the student’s knowledge, — with 
her deft hand and clever mind, prone 

[ 17 ] 


The Mayfairs 


to skip along to passable results, she 
was not one to strive for thoroughness 
in thorough-bass or counter-point; yet 
the spontaneity of her music made it 
popular; and her talent had served 
her fairly well, though there were 
many teachers of her grade. 

The home of the Mayfairs was on 
Fig Avenue. Does the name suggest 
width of driveway and sidewalk, long 
rows of trees, from which the pedes- 
trian may pluck the transparent-heart- 
ed “Smyrna” or the red centered 
“Mission,” and eat -as he sits on the 
benches that recur at intervals? Then 
I must correct the fancy, for the “Ave- 
nue” was only a queer little alley, and 
within the memory of the renters of 
the cottages, no fig or other fruit tree 
had been seen in the yards or along 
the roadside. 

I regarded the Mayfairs as living 
in a genteel way there. It is hard to 
tell on what I based my impression; 
I think the cause of it lay within them- 
selves. Their front room, with its 
cheap matting on the floor, two chairs, 
a stand, second-hand window-shades, 
[ 18 ] 


The Mayfairs 


and a piano, — the pride of Mrs. May- 
fair’s heart, bought or being bought 
on the installment plan, — seemed ever 
a parlor. One scarcely knew what it 
held, such a tone of “Music and the 
Classics” had it. It was said of 
Madame Recamier that she gave an 
air of elegance to any room she used; 
and Mrs. Mayfair radiated a like 
magic, — not through any change she 
brought about in the room, but because 
she held fast to an idea of elegance that 
gave grace to hard acts, the state of 
mind being the vital thing. It was the 
idea that pleased you, aqd entered 
your mind direct, rather than by the 
medium of things, bringing your mind 
into accord. 

How she swayed one to her point 
in other matters also! With what con- 
tent she showed one day -a made-over 
dress! “I had only the cost of the 
buttons and thread,” she said, parad- 
ing it over a chair. “If a dressmaker 
had the same work to do, she would 
have wanted new linings and new pip- 
ings, and new this and that, and more 
goods;- — and who could have told the 

[ 19 ] 


The Mayfairs 


difference?” she added with naivete 
— as though she had haply found out 
the dressmakers to be a much over- 
rated craft, and was too shrewd to be 
awed by any hue or cry of Madame 
Grundy’s. 

She had succeeded in a general way. 
She had handled her theme, so to 
speak, with spirit; she had caught the 
motive of the season’s styles, and had 
even dared to suggest some of its nov- 
elties; but there is a limit to the pow- 
er of mind over material, and there is 
such a quality as finish, and I think it 
likely that the people of fashion were 
not deceived as to the origin of her 
“costumes”. Yet she so stirred the 
enthusiasm of her listener that she 
wanted to go home at once and re- 
make a gown. 

I can see her in fancy, sitting by 
my side, ready to follow the score 
with her pen-knife, or to preface 
the lesson with a few words. She 
had not a striking face, but pleasing, 
with traces of beauty; refined features, 
a head high where courage and faith 

[ 20 J 


The Mayfairs 


abide, and a forehead round and wide 
where music is located. 

The light hair was turning gray, 
there were wrinkles around the faded 
eyes and the small mouth; but the 
nose was straight. 

She liked to talk, — converse was the 
word she used. 

“My dear, it may seem to you that 
a vast deal of time is consumed in ac- 
quiring an educated ear, that will per- 
ceive the musical harmonies; to make 
any perceptible improvements in your 
touch. But I assure you that in no 
endeavor is one better repaid for per- 
sistent and unavoidable application. 
Music is a perennial solace to one’s 
self and one’s friends. It enlivens 
alike the domestic circle and adorns 
the repertoire of the virtuoso. It 
mitigates our cares and increases our 
social gayeties. No other accomplish- 
ment is so desirable, I think, for a 
young lady. It is a woman’s sphere 
to make home happy. Men can take 
upon themselves the hard tasks, but 
they can not cheer existence like wo- 
men, useless creatures though they 

[ 21 ] 


The Mayfairs 


be,”*^said with a light laugh, — “and 
music dispenses more refining and 
uniting attributes than any other ac- 
quirement a young lady can devote 
herself to.” 

With a celebrated author, she could 
have said, “I love words.” She had 
an innocent and not unwarranted faith 
in her persuasiveness. “So much de- 
pends upon presenting a matter well,” 
she would say. 

But all the little music teacher’s 
eloquence availed nothing when two 
of her pupils were taken ill with the 
measles, and two others left the town. 

Soon after this, I felt a change 
at the Mayfair’s. Mrs. Mayfair’s 
easy sociability was no longer to be 
depended on. Sometimes her face 
would gather slowly a grayness that 
belied her previous gayety; sometimes 
she would lose herself for a moment, 
and her forehead would knit; again, 
there would come a droop to the corn- 
ers of the mouth, and her eyes would 
take a far-away, clear look, as though 
escaping from the prison-house of 
earth and the turmoil of life. 

C 22 ] 


The Mayfairs 


The Captain at this time, while 
more studiously deferenti-al toward his 
wife than usual, was gruffness itself 
toward others. A perverse spirit had 
taken possession of him that all her 
philosophy failed to rout. Once I 
heard her say to him, in perfect sym- 
pathy with his mood, in a severe tone, 
as though matters had come to that 
pass where something must be done, 
“I would forgive him and done with 
it, if I were you,” and I knew she 
would have her way. 

If he was gruff without, he was 
glum within the house, and would sit 
with his lank figure bent forward, his 
one hand clasping his knee, and his 
thin, dark, brooding face held down, 
as though searching into the very in- 
wardness of things. His dark, stead- 
fast eyes would sometimes be lifted to 
follow her movements, or would seek 
her eyes with a deprecating glance. 
And Mrs. Mayfair would make an 
effort at brightening. 

Day by day the cloud lowered over 
the Mayfairs, so that when one morn- 
ing I met -a dealer in second-hand 

[ 23 ] 


The Mayfairs 


furniture on their steps, with a stand 
in his grasp, I knew that affairs had 
reached a crisis with them. 

On the next lesson day I dreaded to 
enter their house, and paused outside, 
where the yellow butterflies were tak- 
ing their living in the sunshine from 
the purple heliotrope. Captain and 
Mrs. Mayfair were standing by the 
piano when I came to the open door, 
and something white fell from his face 
upon the music she held in her hand. 
At the sound of my knocking, he turn- 
ed toward me, frowned, and left the 
room. I glanced at the waltz music. 
I was not mistaken; there was a little 
raised signet on the cover. 

In spite of the evidence of that 
white tear, I was made aware, by some 
subtle mind-reading, that the pressure 
was lifted from the household. And, 
O joyful sight! there was a well known 
pitcher, and beside it, a plate with a 
few wafers, that told, as plainly as 
words, that the crisis was past, and 
the Mayfairs had had one of their 
little receptions: conversation and 
music, lemonade and wafers. 

['24 ] 


The Mayfairs 


“We had a charming time last even- 
ing, ” said Mrs. Mayfair. “We defer- 
red our reception last month for var- 
ious reasons. A young man played 
the mandolin, he rendered several sel- 
ections with admirable technique; and 
the two little Brownlow girls recited 
a poem, ‘The Orphans.’ They were 
dressed alike and it was very touching. 
Then Jimmie Sykes — you know him — 
recited a comic poem about a flying 
machine. It was irresistible! The 
young scape-grace has really quite a 
deal of talent in the comic vein; I 
wasn’t prepared for such dramatic 
ability. It wasn’t quite appropriate 
after ‘The Orphans,’ but he volun- 
teered, and indeed it served to restore 
the spirits of the company. Then they 
would have it that I must sing, and I 
gave them a selection from ‘The Bohe- 
mian Girl’: ‘I Dreamt that I Dwelt 
in Marble Halls,’ ” and here Mrs. 
Mayfair’s voice had just a perceptible 
note of pathos in it. 

“O, by-the-way,” she continued, “the 
young man that plays the mandolin is 
going to take lessons of me, he has al- 

[ 25 ] 


The Mayfairs 


ready begun”; and she added with a 
plaintive remoteness of tone, “He is 
good pay, and” — with a sudden ap- 
pealing earnestness, as she looked in- 
to my eyes — “some of them are not. 
You know — or rather you don’t know” 
— and she paused as if to choose her 
words, and then said, half to herself, 
“Life is up hill and down.” 

And that was all; and I know noth- 
ing more of the fortunes of the May- 
fairs. I never saw the Captain again, 
and the last time I met Mrs. Mayfair 
was soon after, when another pupil 
and I went with her to the beach. 

I remember (how foolish to re- 
member such trifles!) that she bought 
a nickle’s worth of early apricots, 
about as big as walnuts; and that 
having passed them once and whetted 
our appetites, she folded the bag to- 
gether and saved the remaining three 
for the Captain. 

I had my last glimpse of her as she 
turned the corner towards her home; 
and I remember, as she held up her 
skirts to keep them from the dust, I 
saw that she wore old-fashioned 
[ 26 ] 


The Mayfairs 


leathern gaiters, badly stretched at the 
sides, — a “bargain.” Blithe heart, 
that could be happy with such shoes! 
And a woman, too, that had not scorn- 
ed to dance out her youth in the best 
prunella! 

I left town soon after for a trip ; 
when I returned the little house on 
Fig Avenue was closed, and the form 
er inmates were among the “people I 
had known.” 


[ 27 ] 







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[ 28 ] 





SHAKESPEARE 


Here is our sphered world interpreted! 

Deep music peals along the upper way; 

These chords of his are mingled grave and gay. 
Ah, Shakespeare sang so well, by nature led, 
The Unseen sang itself in what he said. 

How one high quality exalts our clay! 

“A god,” we cry, poor children of a day: 

He saw all sides and what might be he read. 

That vital self within the frame of man, 

Inborn and bred, would make its powers free. 
The great heart knows its own, there is no ban; 

The hero overtops a martial sea, 

And woman wins by worth ’gainst perfidy. 

Yet how we grandly fail! as mortals can. 


[ 29 ] 















THE CAMPER 


Ah, soon I shall ride for REST, to the land of 
ripening wheat, 

Where, far as a bird can fly, ’tis swaying full 
heads in the heat. 

An Arab, w r ith only a tent, away from the 
pavement here, 

I’ll wander at will like a prince, over the hills 
and the plain, 

Bask in the balmy warmth, quaff sun-brewed 
odor of grain, 

A child of the comforting earth at harvest 
time of the year. 

I long for that glorious sweep, of gold reaching 
out to the hills, 

When wind from afar runs like a galloping 
steed that fills 

His nostrils with hope of escape from trammel 
of bit. 

In racing long waves o’er the fields the bearded 
grain tumbles and plays, 

While the sky in the west is aflame with 
twilight’s deepening rays; 

And thought runs freed with the wheat to 
splendor the the sunset has lit. 


r 31 ] 


And thought runs bold with the breeze into the 
glimmering maze, 

Till the hush of even comes down with the 
tender gray of haze. 

Then my spirit eases its wings, my question- 
ing heart would fain 

Leave all to the shaping Power. The tent of 
night is wide, 

Within is stillness and peace, noise and revolt 
outside. 

I lean on the comforting earth, and know that 
to live is gain. 


[ 32 ] 


FAR AFIELD 


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A Prelude 


The Diplomat 

An open fire is always a cheerful 
sight when the thermometer is below 
zero, and long black clouds are in the 
sky; and an old gentleman in dressing- 
gown and slippers and the softest of 
lamb’s-wool hose is a pleasing access- 
ory. Horace Davenport, as he step- 
ped upon the creaking veranda of an 
old New England mansion-house, and 
gave a casual glance through one of 
its small-paned windows, on his way 
to the great door of the hall, expected 
to see the usual picture. But instead 
of half-dozing before the fire, Uncle 
Nicholas was sitting bolt upright, with 
white hair tumbled, frowning at the 
carpet, and talking to himself in a 
fashion that would have surprised his 
nephew if he could have heard the 
following comments : — 

“There’s no use in it! If he does 
not know when he has gone far en- 
ough, it is time for a cooler head — 
not but he is cool enough when it 
comes to a matter of health; one would 

C 35 ] 


Far Afield 


think that lungs could be made to or- 
der and warranted to wear. Politics !” 
throwing back his head with fine dis- 
dain, “he talks of purifying politics, 
raising the standard in local affairs! 
Have to drown the whole lot of place- 
seekers, and then their friends, before 
we can get a sound administration. 

“It will take the heart out of me, 
though, sending him away; — but I 
hope I am not in my dotage!” there 
was decision in the speaker’s tone if 
not a youthful ring, and he grasped 
the arms of his chair with energy. “He 
must be kept away! He has earned a 
vacation and must take it — if I have 
to lie! — Well, I trust it will not come 
to that. I must be simply diplo- 
matic.” 

“Diplomatic!” There was hope in 
the word. 

The monologue was interrupted by 
a series of knocks and then the en- 
trance of -a tall, slim and chill young 
man, borne in seemingly on a blast of 
wind. 

“Whew, Uncle, you look cozy!” ex- 
claimed the one. 

[ 36 ] 


Far Afield 


“Well, well, it is pretty cold out, 
I’m thinking,” answered the other, 
with an attempt at briskness. 

Having removed his overcoat, the 
nephew seated himself by the fire. 
Uncle Nicholas was his guardian in 
childhood and in youth; later the re- 
lations were reversed, or rather both 
accepted the part of guardian. Nat- 
urally the older man didn’t resign the 
right to take care of his nephew to 
heart’s content — or discontent, as the 
case might be. The young man’s face 
was tense from breasting the north- 
easter, and his uncle thought it grown 
hollow-eyed. A lapse into silence was 
broken by the older man. 

“What do you think, Horace, of 
taking up a little work along with 
your play?” 

“I don’t think, but I’m willing to,” 
answered Horace smiling. 

“Well, then, could you bring 

me back a collection of California 
wild flowers? You have remembered 
enough botany to mount and classify 
them, I suppose. You will not have 

[ 37 ] 


Far Afield 


much to hinder?” asked the diplomat. 

“Nothing! Nothing!” his nephew 
answered heartily. 

“I should not be satisfied with any 
half-way affair. If I can not have a 
complete collection, I would rather 
have none.” 

“Complete is a big word, Uncle.” 

“Exactly.” I should like an herb- 
arium that would throw Mr. Hall’s 
entirely into the shade. He’s too 
much puffed up over his Mexican 
specimens,” asserted the schemer, wax- 
ing bold and throwing back his 
shoulders as though challenging his 
victim to bring cause of complaint. 

“Mr. Hall spent four years in Mex- 
ico,” said his nephew reflectively, try- 
ing to weigh the possibilities. 

“If I can’t rival him in his line, I 
can in another,” declared this aspirant 
for late honors. 

“We’ll go in to win!” rejoined the 
younger Davenport emphatically. He 
wondered that he had never before 
noticed this special interest in botany. 
It struck him, too, as somewhat out of 
character in his uncle to show such a 

[ 38 ] 


Far Afield 


spirit of rivalry toward his old neigh- 
bor. 

“It’s well to have a hobby for old 
age,” pursued the diplomat. “You’ll 
be getting married one of these days, 
Horace, and will have others to think 
of besides a valetudinarian uncle. I 
shall see even less of you than now.” 

“I shall not be long away,” answer- 
ed the younger man with the idea of 
consolation. 

Uncle Nicholas knew too well that 
a rising young lawyer with no time 
for dallying would find it hard to 
spend the spring and summer in Cali- 
fornia for his health. 

“If your Aunt Alvira had lived,” 
said the silver-haired guardian at 
parting, “what a home we should have 
made for you to return to! As it is, 
there’s only a feeble man to keep any 
life in the place. If you would but 
take it upon yourself, Horace, to carry 
on the traditions of the old days, — of 
a happy family life within these walls! 
But don’t bring us back any wild-wood 
flower to transplant. Such grow best 
in the shadow of a clearing; they do 

[ 39 ] 


Far Afield 


not suit a terrace.” “If Alvira had 
lived!” Ah, those old regrets! Four 
years of marriage — not short years — 
they must have been long ones to have 
created so many faithful memories. 
From his sixteenth birthday Horace 
had known where the portrait on Ivory 
was kept, — a lady’s face like an apple 
blossom for color, framed by long 
curls. He had seen the young wife’s 
sampler, her needle work and her 
drawings — she was accomplished for 
those days. And her carefully writ- 
ten journal lay in the aged lover’s 
desk. Winsome Alvira! This journal 
told when the first crocus opened, how 
beautifully the roses bloomed on the 
southern terrace, that “a dear bird has 
built its nest right by our chamber 
window on a branch of the pear tree,” 
and how “God had His eye on all of 
His creatures for their good;” told 
that the Wentworth’s had been to tea, 
saying that she used the best china for 
the first time, and how they played 
backgammon* in the twilight; how the 
Gordon’s came for the day and even- 
ing, and they had dancing and iced- 

[ 40 ] 


Far Afield 


lemonade on the veranda; how the 
lilac silk was ruined and could not be 
restored; told how sacred she held 
the wing room, for there were kept 
all the things Nicholas’ baby sister 
had used; and how every old associa- 
tion had been guarded and cherished. 

Not to every boy would Nicholas 
Davenport have shown these memor- 
ials. It was a favor that argued well 
for the boy. 

“It will be lonesome for him when 
I am away,” Horace Davenport 
thought, as he walked forth in the 
night and storm. “ ’Tis queer! But 
he shall have his herbarium, though, 
the dear Uncle.” 

It was not without a sharp pang of 
forboding that he came out from the 
avenue of giant poplars into the high- 
road, and gave a farewell glance at the 
old homestead. 


[ 41 ] 


Chapter I 

Canon Boundaries 

Horace Davenport looked rather 
spent one warm California morning 
in March as he thrust aside the cha- 
parral, trying to follow a rude trail 
that led down into Rock Spring 
Canon. He would h-ave liked well to 
discover that spring, but he must rest 
first. Removing his case of specimens 
— he always had specimens — he threw 
himself on the ground. 

How life-giving the dry air, pun- 
gent from strange wild growths, and 
odorous from many tiny plants that 
were abloom among the rocks! There 
was rising sap in the woods; new tas- 
sels fringed the live oak overhead; 
on the edge of the barranca, within 
range of his eyes, the mottled bark 
and new leaves of sycamores made an 
illuminated spot. Color everywhere! 
What Indian loom could match the 
tangled threads of dodder on the 
brush and grass, or blend the red- 

[ 42 ] 


Far Afield 


brown and green of manzanita on the 
hill, or spin the silver-gray of wild 
oats on the little plat beyond? And 
over all the gleaming sunlight of the 
Golden West. 

A humming, chirping, twittering, 
a rustling of dry twigs, the falling of 
a leaf proclaimed to the wanderer 
that, though astray, he was not alone. 
Hu-, hu-, hu-, three times prolonged! 
It was the call of the quail; plaintive, 
intense, resonant — a direct appeal 
from the heart of the bird to the heart 
of the universe. 

“Heigho! What’s that?” he ex- 
claimed, as something shot past his 
ear. “That is not the direction of 
gravity.” 

He turned on his elbow to find a 
pair of brown eyes fixed upon him, 
the eyes of a little girl. She stood in 
the brush, alert as a rabbit and as 
grave as an owl. 

“Do acorns fall sideways from these 
trees?” he asked, with a smile. 

There was an answering smile in 
her eyes, but no word or stir. 

“Try, try again! If at first you 

t 43 i 


Far Afield 


don’t succeed, ask, ask again!” he per- 
sisted. 

“There ain’t none there,” was the 
terse response. 

“Well, then, here’s another; Where 
can a thirsty man get a drink of cold 
spring water ” 

One chubby hand was raised. 
“There,” answered the oracle, and 
scampered off down the trail. 

When the wanderer came up to the 
cabin which the trees had hidden, the 
child was tugging at a pail of water, 
and a young woman had left her wash- 
ing to get a glass. Two more child- 
ren of the Golden West, younger than 
our first acquaintance, sat on the door- 
step “eating bread and honey.” 

He had a good look at the grown 
sister as she filled the glass, and he 
thought that she might once have been 
just such another as the youngsters on 
the door-step. She had the same 
shaded brown hair, with stray locks 
curling about the forehead, the same 
brown eyes, the same transparent glow 
to the brown skin. 

He praised the draught. 

[ 44 ] 


Far Afield 


“We think it good,” she replied 
briefly. 

“I was thirsty enough to enjoy it. 
I lost the way,” he explained. It 
gives one a queer feeling, even by day- 
light, to get off the trail and not be 
•able to find it again.” 

“How did it happen?” she asked. 

“You see a point ahead and assume 
that any tenderfoot can stumble down 
hill, and you cut across lots — or try 
to, as I did — and find, the first you 
know, that you have run up against 
a barranca or chaparral or both, be- 
fore you are through. 

“Very risky,” said the reticent list- 
ener. 

“I was not lost; oh, no!” he continu- 
ed, “I had my bearings; I knew which 
way I wanted to go; but I was in a 
trap, and I did not know when I 
should get out. There’s a limit to the 
amount of ground that a man can cov- 
er without losing sight of the joke.” 

“One gets along best by keeping to 
the trails,” she advised gravely; “See- 
ing where one wants to go cannot help 
one through tough chaparral.” 


[ 45 ] 


Far Afield 


Having brought forward a chair, 
she invited him to rest. 

He hesitated; the washing stared 
him in the face. On the other hand, 
here was a chance to study canon life 
and people, including the young wo- 
man with humor lurking in her eyes. 
He yielded to the temptation, making 
the excuse of wishing to sort and 
sprinkle his specimens. 

She had placed him at once as the 
“Lawyer boarding over at the Holt’s,” 
and stood for a moment in doubt 
whether to go on with her washing 
or accept the alternative of a stiff at- 
tempt at neighborliness. The instinct 
of hospitality prevailed. Sending the 
children for a plate of oranges for the 
refreshment of her guest, she sat down 
primly and folded her hands. 

He could study her as he ate the 
fruit. 

“Not regularly pretty,” he said to 
himself; but the fullness over the tem- 
ples hinted at cleverness, the eyes had 
depth within their dark gleam, and 
she carried her shapely head with 
courage. 

r 4 6 ] 


Far Afield 


She was sparing of words; and 
her voice had a repressed sweetness of 
tone. He soon guessed when he came 
to unpack his case, that here was one 
of the flower-lovers, and it was his cue. 

“Nature is no ’prentice?” he ex- 
claimed, posing a saxafrage on its 
rose-red stem, and handing it to her. 
“A wee, modest flower; but look at it 
through the glass and the finish is ex- 
quisite.” 

“ ‘Tis the nature of the plant,” she 
answered briefly, while her face was 
eloquent with things unsaid. 

With the tentative air of one who 
usually keeps his poetry to himself, he 
quoted : 

“ ‘Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies; 

Hold you here, root and all, in my 
hand, 

Little flower — but if I could under- 
stand 

What you are, root and all, and all in 
all, 

I should know what God and man 
is.’ — 


[ 47 ] 


Far Afield 


and this beauty is for our pleasure/’ 
he added. 

“Yes, — they give of their beauty, 
but it is no less their own.” She 
spoke hesitatingly, as though weighing 
what she said. “It’s beauty comes by 
the perfecting of its own nature; else 
it has no gift worth anything; if that 
serves us, it is because there is some- 
thing within us that corresponds. What 
we admire seems more nearly perfect 
in them; how is that; if they are a 
lower form of life? — and we are high- 
er — of course, but — ” She did not 
finish. 

All that he knew of books, all that 
culture meant, loomed up vague and 
vast before her imagination. He prob- 
ably knew the laws of evolution and 
other laws, keys to the mystery of 
life. 

He marveled at the subtlety of her 
thoughts. “We seem to lose the per- 
fection of parts in gaining enlarge- 
ment as a whole. I perceive that we 
are framed on a larger plan, but we’re 
woefully defective in its fulfillment.” 
He did not know whether the idea 

[ 48 ] 


Far Afield 


came from his own brain or not, it 
might have been from Browning. 
“Also,” he continued, “we are higher 
through consciousness, which is a 
pledge of advancement — a pledge not 
always fulfilled. You do not hold 
that plants have consciousness, 
surely?” he asked. 

When she spoke there was an echo- 
ing quality to her hesitating words 
that gave vitality to what she said. 
“Seems as though there must be a sort 
of consciousness in anything so lovely 
— I can’t help believing it — though 
not a consciousness like ours, — and a 
soul, too. Isn’t the soul the life prin- 
ciple?” she ventured hardily. “Now, 
a pansy or a poppy seed is so fine that 
you can scarcely see it, and yet the 
nature of the plant is bound up in 
one.” 

“Yes,” he assented to the rising in- 
flection of her voice, “and the germ 
is infinitesimal.” 

“There’s no size to it,” she asserted 
with conviction.” “I do not think 
there’s any matter to it. It’s some- 
thing different — force, harmony, in- 

[ 49 ] 


Far Afield 


telligence, God, soul. Yes, there’s a 
sort of soul in them.” 

She arose, and going into the house 
brought out a large boquet and offer- 
ed it to him saying that he might find 
in it some varieties that he did not 
have. 

He selected two blossoms and re- 
turned the rest, remarking upon their 
nice arrangement. 

“The flowers have what we all wish 
to have, beauty,” she said holding up 
a Mariposa lily, “ and it is a pity if 
they do not know it.” 

“Yes,” he replied, falling into the 
lighter vein as readily as into the more 
serious, “they have fine raiment with- 
out taking thought; but the human 
sisterhood would lose one of their 
chief amusements if they could not 
take thought of raiment.” 

Her answer came quickly: “We 
might learn from them that beauty is 
worth while, and that women need not 
be ashamed of taking thought.” 

He smiled at her feminine view. 
“Well, then,” he retorted gaily, “say 

[ 50 ] 


Far Afield 


that they need only be ashamed of 
not succeeding oftener in their aim.” 

She laughed. “Well, that is cause 
enough,” she admitted. “If it were 
not for fashion, we might copy na- 
ture’s handiwork.” She lifted up a 
golden poppy with a demure air and 
eyed it critically. “Now I might copy 
this; but I could not go around in a 
golden dress if I liked it ever so 
much.” 

“Why not?” he asked gravely. 
“Why not? a shade paler and at the 
right time and in the right place.” 

“In cities, maybe, but not here,” she 
responded hastily. 

“Well, cities have their own ways, 
to be sure,” he said. 

He had noted the wistfulness and 
marveled. Surely this daughter of 
the hills was not one to long for fash- 
ionable life. How would she look in 
the pale gold dress? Why should she 
not care for it? It would become her. 
But that life would not be hers; she 
might well be thankful that with her 
sturdy pride she had escaped the 
straits and mockeries of the city poor. 

[ si ] 


Far Afield 


His thoughts took hold of the thread 
of her destiny and began to spin its 
web. What did life mean to such as 
she? Here was sunshine and fresh 
air and the hardiness that comes with 
work. Surely this simple-faring ex- 
istence, with its plain duties and 
wholesome pleasures, had its due com- 
pensation; it made good men and wo- 
men and that was the supreme test. 
Who would exchange this artless and 
free life for the world’s rush and 
worry? Its false aims and arbitrary 
rules — irksome even to its devotees? 
Would he himself? Aye! To him 
these vacant spaces were appalling 
considered as a life home. He need- 
ed the touch of hurrying humanity, 
the momentum of the mass. But it 
must be different with such as these; 
they were attuned to it. Why so sure? 
might not one miss what one has nev- 
er known, the help and experience of 
kindred souls? the knowledge and 
art gathered in great centers? Surely 
people were various even here, and 
the gain of one was but loss to his 
neighbor. These thoughts passed 

[ 52 ] 


Far Afield 


swiftly through the mind of the man, 
and perhaps something of like import 
kept his hostess silent for that brief 
space of time. 

He started up from his abstraction. 
The tubs accused him of thoughtless- 
ness. “I shall remember your spring 
in my wanderings,” he said as he 
slung his case over his shoulders, “with 
your permission” he added. 

She replied by offering to show him 
the source of the clear water he had 
enjoyed, and led the way around the 
house. The mother came to the door 
and was introduced. She paused just 
long enough to say that the Holt’s were 
old friends, and to invite him to be 
neighborly. She had a gentle, quiet 
manner with the poise of a self-di- 
recting person. 

At the rear of the house was an im- 
mense oak overhanging a large rock, 
and in the cave-like space, beneath 
was a spring of the clearest water, 
which reflected the brakes and the 
slender wild flowers, making a green 
coolness. 

Taking down a gourd, the Botanist 

[ 53 ] 


Far Afield 


filled it from the pool, “I drink to the 
next way-farer astray in these hills. 
May he have my luck — or rather, his 
own good luck; I should like to be- 
lieve that I owe mine to a sort of spe- 
cial providence.” A few words of 
thanks for her hospitality, then he 
lifted his hat, bowed, and was off down 
the trail without once looking back. 

When Josephine returned to the 
wash tubs she found the water cold, 
but she did not fret. 

“He thought it arranged prettily,” 
she murmured, turning about the bou- 
quet and studying it. “The door-yard 
didn’t look -as well as it might,” 
glancing to where a box of moss and 
live oak acorns had been overturned 
by the children. “It’s clean dirt, but 
he wouldn’t know it.” 


“Tired, Josephine?” asked Mr. Jol- 
iet that evening. She still sat at the 

C 54 ] 


Far Afield 


tea table after the rest had moved 
away and was letting her mother clear 
off the dishes. 

“Not so very,” she answered, and 
her voice had its usual blythe key, but 
the eyes she raised to her father told 
another tale. 

He wondered, and thought that the 
washing must have been extra large. 

She arose, as though at his words, 
and going to the mantel took down the 
boquet and went out of doors. There in 
the moonlight, standing on the edge of 
the barranca, the rebellious pain that 
had shown out in her eyes pressed 
on her heart as though to smother 
it. She lifted the boquet and flung it 
with all her might far off into the 
blackness. The hot tears rushed to her 
eyes and blinded her for a moment. 
She waited to regain her composure 
several minutes, while the cool night 
air fanned her cheeks, then returned 
to the house. 

What did it mean? It meant no 
quarter to dreams. What if she want- 
ed books, a piano, and, more than all, 
companionship? What if she had 

[ 55 ] 


Far Afield 


suddenly felt herself poor in the things 
that make for life? 

There are growing pains, mental as 
well as physical — those hints to the 
heart of youth of an unfilled destiny. 
To each generation they come anew 
to stir with desire of advancement; 
they make for the betterment of the 
race. Moreover, aspirations unshared 
and powers unused are apt to mutiny 
in the most unexpected way. 

Josephine Joliet was long awake 
that evening in her little room be- 
neath the eaves. The full moon shone 
across the bed and counseled peace. 
The moonbeams said: “Why turn it 
over and over again? It is plain. Your 
mother has much to do; the children 
need your help. You could not be 
happy away if you were wanted here.” 

Because he was different from most, 
the stranger who came to her home 
that day had awakened her old desire 
to see more of the world. What was 
it in him that made her feel that he 
would understand and respect her 
fanciful ideas? She was usually reti- 

[ 56 ] 


Far Afield 


cent. Had she been too communica- 
tive? The thought troubled her. 

Sometime, she told herself, her ship 
would come in, and it would bear her 
away to the realm of her imagination. 
“But that time is not here yet,” she 
told herself vehemently, “and you may 
as well face the facts. If you were 
to go away you would turn back at 
the first word; you would think that 
you were missed.” The tears were on 
her lashes, but she had accepted cir- 
cumstances when she fell asleep. 

Josephine supposed that her long- 
ings were heroically locked in her own 
breast; but her parents were not so 
unmindful of her desires as they 
seemed. Down stairs in the little 
sitting-room they were exchanging 
views on the subject. 

“Why will Josephine pour over 
magazines so much?” Mrs. Joliet 
questioned, “I think they make her 
restless.” 

“ ’Tis natural that they should some- 
times,” her husband replied. “They 
lead the mind beyond its opportuni- 
ties. Pictures of ships, markets, cath- 

[ 57 ] 


Far Afield 


edrals call to her to go forth to see and 
to know. When the right time comes 
Josephine shall have her chance to 
see the world, she shall have her ad- 
ventures of mind and spirit.” There 
was a close bond of sympathy between 
father and daughter. “But she’ll miss 
the mountains and want to come back.” 


[ 58 ] 


Chapter II 

The House-warming 

“I’ve come to ask you-uns to a 
house-warmin’ at Steves. He ’lows 
we’uns might hev the house, if we- 
uns’ll git it up. Adios.” 

The native of Tennessee was off, 
swaying to the lope of his horse with 
joyous abandon. All within walking 
or driving distance had an “invite.” 

When Davenport at half-past seven 
reached the little creek that ran be- 
tween Steve’s and the road, farm teams 
were hitched at every available tree. 
He crossed, by aid of a lantern hung 
there, the narrow foot-bridge; and 
then, led by others, went into the 
house without knocking. No host or 
hostess met them. A dim and flicker- 
ing light, intensified in spots where 
candles were stuck onto boards nailed 
to the studding, disclosed ten or twelve 

[ 59 ] 


Far Afield 


women seated along one side of the 
bare room. As for the men, they 
could be seen through the open door, 
hovering over a bonfire by the willows. 

Mine host passed through the room 
in shirt-sleeves strikingly white. He 
had been at his toilet in an adjoining 
room, and aimed straight toward a 
collar-box on a little shelf and return- 
ed with it in his hand, looking neither 
to the right or to the left, acting un- 
der the ostrich-like confidence that if 
he ignored the presence of his guests, 
his entrance was as though it had not 
been. 

The silence without the sanctity of 
a Quaker meeting had settled upon 
the place. Finally the musicians, 
three Spaniards, arrived and began to 
tune their instruments; whereupon a 
number of the young men came in and 
arranged themselves on the side of the 
room opposite the women. The awful 
solemnity gave way before the strid- 
ent vibrations of the strings; now and 
then a low remark was launched upon 
the disquieted air. 

The room filled up with late com- 
[ 60 ] 


Far Afield 


ers, but a certain member of a botany 
class had not appeared. At length 
Josephine Joliet stood upon the thres- 
hold. Friends came up to her with 
greetings, to which she replied with 
humorous smiles lighting up her fea- 
tures. Davenport thought her in good 
spirits. “Pretty as a rose,” was his 
inward comment. She had on a gown 
of some cotton stuff of wood tones 
touched with pink and the wild roses 
on her breast matched the trimming. 
The tint was repeated in the soft flush 
of her cheeks. 

He had never called her “pretty” 
before; and the word did not de- 
scribe her distinct and vital personal- 
ity with its promise of a largeness of 
nature to be acquired within a few 
more years; and yet the word came 
n-aturally to his mind as she stood 
there in the flickering light. 

Some one came in and marched 
straight up to her. “Ansel Dean is 
my ideal of a young man,” said his 
neighbor, whose eyes had taken the 
same direction as his own. So he was 
her escort. 


[ 61 ] 


Far Afield 


Davenport had taken a seat by Mrs. 
Penby as a guard against the ominous 
silence, and he found that he had done 
well. 

“How’s yer health?” she inquired. 
“Didn’t know’s ye went out evenin’s. 
Plearn yer’s here for a rest. ’Twas 
when ye fust came, p’raps; yer lookin’ 
right peart now.” 

“Oh, I’m myself again,” Davenport 
answered, “thanks to your air and my 
will. I give myself part of the credit, 
you see; California gets praise enough 
from old residents.” 

“Reckon we-uns do pile it on, so to 
speak. ’Pears like it’s human nachur 
to brag, and the perversity of human 
nachur to want to git rid of the very 
thing yer braggin’ about, don’t yer 
know?” 

Mr. Penby was engaged in the 
laudable attempt to share with the 
dwellers of less favored climes his 
particular portion of the “garden spot 
of the Golden West,” — in town lot 
divisions; in other words, he was try- 
ing to start a “boom” in El Quieto. 

[ 62 ] 


Far Afield 


“Can’t live on scenery and geran- 
iums nohow,” Mrs. Penby admitted, 
tolerantly. “Ever hear Mis Holt tell 
of a friend of hern that brought out 
some from the East'? — geraniums, I 
mean, — Well, she cut’em down; put 
’em in cans into a basket, and toted 
’em along ’till she come over the Sier- 
ras, this side, where they grow as tall 
as the eves, — some sorts. Couldn’t say 
’geraniums to her for a year, so her 
husband said, — used to tell it on her 
for a joke.” 

“Like carrying coals to Newcastle,” 
said her listener, much amused. 

“Yes, ’spec so; pretty good tug, 
dirt’s heavy when wet,” Mrs. Penby 
replied to the obvious meaning of his 
words. 

His talkative companion needed 
but a ‘yea’ and ‘nay’ for encourage- 
ment, and Davenport felt free to in- 
dulge in his own thoughts and obser- 
vations. 

“Spose you’ve hearn tell of our 
California squashes?” a voice at his 
shoulder inquired. “Seen pictures, 
eh? well our neighbor cut the top off 

[ 63 ] 


Far Afield 


one, and his daughter Jane, sixteen 
years old, got into it and he put the 
cover on. Seen it myself. He kept 
it quite a spell, till she got tired 
mussin’ her dress fer folks to gape. 
Her Pa would liked her to go to the 
fair; but she was sot ’gin it; said she 
w’n’t goin’ to climb in and out all 
day, and didn’t mean to set there 
copped up like a hen in a nest.” 
Davenport laughed. 

“I seen that myself,” Mrs. Penby 
declared. “Our neighbor, Mrs. 
Brown went back East after she’d 
been here a spell, and she didn’t dare 
to tell things as they was, they looked 
at her so queer; had to lie to save 
her reputation for truth, she said, — 
seems redicerlous idea, don’t it.” Mrs. 
Penby’s merry laugh roused Daven- 
port in time to encore. 

The music had struck up and Ansel 
was asking Miss Joliet’s hand for the 
first dance. She accepted promptly. 

There was no denying that Ansel 
could dance; he held his head erect 
and moved with free and measured 
grace through all the changes. That 
[ 6 4 ] 


Far Afield 


fine swing of the shoulders which he 
had when on the road was repeated 
now and then. Indeed they all 
danced well, and had picked up many 
of the latest notions. 

Davenport was roused from a fit of 
abstraction by a query repeated to his 
dazed ear: — “ ’spose you’ve tasted 
olives before coming here?” 

“We have the green ones in the 
East” 

It was enough; but the Easterner’s 
attention was diverted, and he did not 
linger to gain all the information 
Mrs. Penby had in store. There was 
a vacant seat on the other side of the 
room that he wanted. But he was 
too late. Miss Joliet had promised 
the next dance and left soon. When 
she had gone he found himself near 
the Teacher. His hostess came up 
and insisted that he take part in the 
dancing. 

“Poor dancers are better than 
none,” she assured him, in answer to 
his doubts; and here’s Teacher as 
light on her feet as a top! You’re at 
a premium tonight; you’ll be valued 

[ 65 ] 


Far Afield 


at more than you’re actually worth, 
and that’s something,” she urged 
laughingly. 

He could do no less than offer him- 
self as a very undesirable partner. 

Miss Styler was of another mind; 
too often she had wasted her taste and 
culture in El Quieto. 

“Mr. Ansel Dean is a rising young 
man, bound to make a mark,” Miss 
Styler informed him. “He already 
has influence in politics.” 

Davenport guessed that they might 
prolong the discourse upon that 
theme. 

“And so Ansel is ambitious. I know 
he has been eager to borrow books. 
And Miss Joliet, is she of an ambi- 
tious mind?” he asked. 

“W ell, she hasn’t adaptability,” 
Miss Styler explained. “She never 
picks up the latest things, — all the 
little fads that are going, you know. 
They have everything so simple and 
old-fashioned in her home! She and 
her mother have a great reputation 
for butter making.” 

Davenport thought of the spring at 
[ 66 ] 


Far Afield 


the Joliet’ place. He recalled the 
basin of clear water reflecting the 
brakes and the slender wild flowers 
and the birds that fluttered thei r 
wings in the shallows, making con- 
scious the face of the water. Besides 
rocks in its sandy bed, there were 
crocks covered with clean boards with 
stones atop. The very ripples seemed 
to call out for milk jars to cool. The 
picture pleased him as an adjunct of 
useful and skillful work. 

“Isn’t butter making admirable 
work?” he asked. 

“I’ve nothing to say against it,” she 
hastened to explain, “only it will not 
count in getting ahead in the world. 
Josephine makes a mistake, I think, 
not to keep up with the times.” 

Davenport knew that he would be 
weighed in the balance and found 
wanting as a young man who had not 
improved his social opportunities by 
learning how to dance well; but he 
was surprised before long to discover 
that the affair was revolving around 
him as -a center. He loomed larger 
in the rustic perspective than he had 

[ 67 ] 


Far Afield 


supposed. It is not to be denied that 
this novel position, to one who had 
never been a leader in society, had 
charm. Two young men came to him 
to explain when a guitar string 
snapped and caused a pause in the 
dancing; some asked his opinion of 
the floor; and others inquired about 
his liking for Spanish music; the 
hostess came to him to explain about 
the cake, — or lack of cake. He was 
amused to find that the women, at any 
rate, were trying to judge the enter- 
tainment through his eyes. 

Nevertheless, when they gave the 
Spanish musicians a rest, and passed 
the lemonade, he was fain to renounce 
his late-found honor, and follow Mr. 
Joliet into the kitchen, where the 
latter was to play for the children to 
dance. He hoped for a word with 
him on a matter that had drawn them 
together. The younger man and 
spectator sat down; while the older 
man, who had nodded as he came 
in, proceeded to tune his instrument. 
The friendship of the two men had 
ripened slowly. Mr. Joliet had that 
[ 68 ] 


Far Afield 


regard for native merit, and disregard 
for mere appearance and position that 
made him slow to accept a man with- 
out an interval of waiting. 

“I don’t know as our fandango will 
interest any grown-up,” he said, when 
he had finished tuning his instrument, 
— “except me. I like to watch ’em 
They have never been taught any 
steps, just make up their own.” 

“Much the better!” the visitor de- 
clared. 

When the music began, the children 
took their places, and gave themselves 
up to its magic spell, — swaying, bal- 
ancing, impelled hither and yon, back 
and forth by some inner monition, 
some mystic impulse dependent upon 
the rythmic sound. Their little faces 
wore a rapt expression. One in par- 
ticular, called Esther, held Daven- 
port’s eyes; her symmetrical form 
seemed to vibrate instinctively, with 
wonderful fertility of invention as to 
pose and movement. She had perhaps 
seen some of the Spanish fancy 
dances, and bore in her childish mind 
an ideal of grace that she was trying 

[ 69 ] 


Far Afield 


to express. She had darker and more 
silky hair than the others and large 
gray eyes, and with the cream-cups 
tucked into her curls over the ears, 
was a captivating figure. 

The dancing was strangly sugges- 
tive of the dancing of all child-wise 
people, with whom instinct is para- 
mount; and seemed as inevitable as 
the swaying of the tree-tops in the 
wind. 

After the children’s dance, Mr. 
Joliet came up and took Davenport’s 
hand in a firm grip. “The ‘word’ 
about the Stamfield case is not re- 
assuring. They are out there by the 
willows now,” he informed the young 
man, speaking of the plotters. “I 
look for trouble, and that soon. I am 
not afraid, as a usual thing, to express 
my opinion, but these folks don’t 
know what free speech is; either you 
are with them or you are against 
them. I can’t stand it though, to be 
a silent party to a lynching.” 

“Leave it to me,” said Davenport, 
“you are their neighbor, and have to 
live with them. I will warn Stam- 

[ 70 ] 


Far Afield 


field, and I will tell them that I have 
warned him. Somehow it must be 
done.” 

There had been hot words between 
the small farmers and a big ranch 
owner named Stamfield, on account 
of land unfenced and his stock at 
large. The Easterner had tried to 
help the former with his legal know- 
ledge; and had even gone to the 
county seat to consult a lawyer, and 
to read up on the California ag- 
grarian law. They had little faith 
in juries, and did not want his advice; 
from which he argued that they meant 
to take the law into their own hands. 
Mr. Joliet had been the only one to 
approve of his efforts. Davenport 
was on his metal now; and having, 
by chance overheard something of a 
plot, with his innate regard for life 
and regard for law, he felt that re- 
sponsibility had been thrust upon him. 

When he returned to the larger 
room, he fancied there were lowering 
looks from some of those present, and 
he did not think that he had far to 
seek for a reason. 


[ 71 ] 


Far Afield 


At last the watched-for moment 
came to seat himself by Josephine. 
How peacefully right it was for him 
to sit there and wait for her low 
tones to fall on his ear! In the long 
rambles of his botany class over the 
hills, Miss Joliet had not proved 
herself a talker; but her spontaneous 
remarks were like fresh grass along 
a well-trod highway. It was not her 
intelligence alone, however, that 
Davenport valued, but the direct sin- 
cerity of her mind as well. 

He found that he could not dance, 
and was too fond of his dignity to 
try again. Already the young people, 
who had been awed by the presence 
of a “society man,” showed a more 
lively manner. He overheard one 
vivacious maid say that she believed 
she should go east and set up a 
dancing class. He felt no more in 
his element here than at one of Mrs. 
Stowell’s receptions. And there was 
Ansel carrying all before him! 

Josephine, who had gone out, now 
returned and handed him a book, the 
loss of which had caused him anx- 

[ 72 ] 


Far Afield 


iety. It was a note book he had used 
in his botany class. There was 
jottings in it meant only for his eyes, 
words of hers, keys to memory. She 
might have opened it, since she knew 
it for a field book, and he turned to 
the pages as though seeking con- 
firmation of his belief that she had 
not. The tips of two white heron 
feathers peered from between the 
leaves as she handed it to him. 

He remembered well the ‘day of 
the white heron.’ He had found her 
bending above a snowy heron that 
Ansel had sent her, and carried out 
of self by a still sort of grief and 
wonder over the beautiful stranger 
that had winged its way to that far 
valley and fallen a prey to man’s av- 
arice for spoil. He thought that he 
had never before seen any form of 
bird life so exquisite, with its slender 
frame, and its long thread-like white 
plumage, so white that it seemed 
unsoilable, the whitest white, the sky 
white of a drifting cloud. 

She had held the bird to her face 
once with a sort of rapture and with 

[ 73 ] 


Far Afield 


a divine pain in her eyes over that 
loss of life and loveliness. How near 
they had come! A high and word- 
less sentiment had passed and been 
apprehended. 

“There is a mood,” he said to him- 
self, “that keeps me aloof when I do 
not comprehend her or come near. 
But that day we did not seek under- 
standing, we knew by a sort of trans- 
fusion of thought.” 

And now so far apart again! There 
was some invisible barrier. 

“There is more to botany than I 
supposed,” Miss Joliet remarked an- 
ent the field-book. It was a remark 
that did not lead far. They had be- 
come very formal. 

Ah, how much in botany! There 
had been a good deal that did not 
pertain strictly to the science of 
plants. 

“She knows that I did not come 
West to teach botany,” thought 
Davenport. “Much as I should like, 
in theory at least, to assist all the 
young people here, I suspect that 
from the first my work was not quite 

[ 74 ] 


Far Afield 


disinterested. She must perceive 
where my interest centers; but she has 
changed. I have faith that does not 
fail; but she has grown over-fearful. 
Yes, I believe she has anticipated or 
she would not have changed. She is 
taking time to think of all the ob- 
stacles. I have tried that way, too. 
It will lead nowhere. One goes 
around and around in a circle; but 
there may be something else in my 
path.” 

He was silent, and gazed absently 
at the lady of his thoughts as she 
moved away; but his heart called out 
tumultuously: “I believe I am yours 
for life and for death, Josephine.” 

He turned to studying the faces of 
those about him. There had been 
a raid of masked men in the valley at 
one time; some of those that took 
part were present, and were recog- 
nized as neighbors and friends, — but 
the faces were well enough. It was 
to prevent a recurrence of the form- 
er tragedy that he had interested him- 
self in the Stamfield case. He had 
been chagrined at the way his advice 

[ 75 ] 


Far Afield 


had been received, and had exclaim- 
ed : : — “If they will not be helped, let 
them be hindered!” The plotters 
heard of the remark and were not 
made more receptive of good council. 
A sturdy independence marked the 
behavior of most of those present. 
Among the younger set the leaven 
of the high-grade teaching that Cali- 
fornia sends into the most remote 
districts was working, and some were 
trying to improve. 

At length the affair was over. He 
saw the Joliets start off and he took 
leave of his hospitable entertainers. 
They had gained his admiration for 
many traits. Wending his way back 
to his boarding place alone, he fell 
to musing upon the variety in human 
lives and fortunes. 

“We know how surface differences 
come,” he thought, — “manners and 
felicities and abilities, — but we can 
never quite trace the making of the 

human soul I did not look for 

the heart of the mystery for me here 
in the West, but I have found it 
never-the-less.” 

[ 76 ] 


Chapter III 

The Unexpected 

Horace Davenport was returning 
from a long ride in the hills. It 
might be his last. The letter that he 
held in his hand advised his return 
to Uncle Nicholas. A pang of regret 
had shot through him when he read 
it. There should be no further de- 
lay; he would be off at once 

Ah, but he had a botanical collection 
that might well gratify an amateur! 
By means of exchanges, and a trip 
to the north and one to the south, he 
had swelled the number of his troph- 
ies. 

The unexpected had happened. 
“I will not leave,” he muttered, “with 
no understanding between us. One 
knows not what may intervene. Logic, 
or perversity, or pride is holding sway 
with Josephine. I believe that she 
is not indifferent. I wish that I were 


[ 77 ] 


Far Afield 


sure. She thinks, doubtless, that 
there is much involved. Well, as to 
the mother, some one to help could 
be found, — and other matters might 
not be hard to adjust.” 

“She loves harmony,” he said 
musingly, “but she will find it hard 
to accept the ‘God of things as they 
are’ in a world of which she knows 
little. Some of her ideas as to the 
just demands of labor, or the right 
of every person to share the unearned 
wealth of the world, of the obligations 
of culture, are in the air these days, 
— are prophesies for many of us; but 
some of her theories are decidedly too 
radical — mere dreams! as I have said 
to her. Anyone can upbuild on 
paper. You must lay brick on brick 
guided by experience, if you do not 
want your structure to topple. But 
she is one to see things in their inter- 
dependence,” he told himself. 

“Certain members of the genus 
tourist, moreover, had given her,” he 
thought, “an exaggerated idea of class 
feeling; and her earnest mind could 
but work upon that theme.” “There 

[ 78 ] 


Far Afield 


might have been foreboding on her 
own account but it seemed to him 
an impersonal attitude. “It was,” 
he thought, “the distinctive American 
idea, handed on from Revolutionary 
days, the idea of something precious 
to guard, something vital to preserve, 
which was in danger of being lost.” 
“Well, she would have to learn for 
herself, and he hoped to be near to 

help, if ” 

He was drawing near the house and 
had reined in his horse, and wheeled 
around to have one more long, linger- 
ing view of El Quieto. The air was 
indescribably fragrant; it came right 
from the sunny, blossoming hills and 
over acres and acres of wheat. On his 
arrival, it h-ad stood up straight as 
spear-heads — low then — and in April 
it had been broidered with golden 
poppies. The corn rustled its broad 
blades where the plowman had fol- 
lowed the furrow, and all told of the 
swift march of time. The earth shone 
in the glory of sunlight. Davenport 
stood at the door taking -a last, long 
gaze at the mountains, as though he 

[ 79 ] 


Far Afield 


would drink his fill of their grand 
serenity. On their slopes were ridges 
and vales and ravines; but from where 
he stood all was softened by purple 
mist and the shadow of clouds sailing 
overhead. He had come to love the 
broad spaces, the noble lines of the 
picturing West; and lavish color 
everywhere fed the senses, warmed 
and enriched! 

“Going home to the old placer’ 
his thoughts repeated. 

When he came into his room he 
found some home papers that Mr. 
Holt had brought after the arrival 
of the last mail, and sat down to read 
them. 

What was that letter that he must 
have pushed back with the door? It 
bore no postmark — yet it was ad- 
dressed to him. 

“Mr. Davenport, — You had better 
l eve right away — some men are mad 
at you and are coming to make it hot 
for you — you had better git out of 
their way after dark, they will see 
you if you leve in the daytime. You 
can send for your trunk” 

L so ] 


Far Afield 


“Mrs. Holt!” Davenport exclaimed. 
The writing was a poor imitation of 
a masculine hand, but he believed 
that the warning came from the only 
one who had appeared anxious on his 
account. 

“So that is their plan! I can not 
see myself marching to that tune. 
Well! we will wait, and see what 
happens tomorrow.” 


[ 81 1 


Chapter IV 

The Family Circle 

The sunlight peered cheerfully into 
the Joliet’s kitchen where the family 
were enjoying their breakfast. The 
father had taken his place at the table, 
and was looking into his cup. 

“There are tea-leaves enough here 
to make a bird’s nest of,” he said. 
Everything served for a jest that 
bright morning. 

The mother was dipping toast to 
share it with a child that sat next to 
her in a high chair and was kicking 
his toes contentedly against the sides 
of the table; and a girl of eight or 
nine was cutting her bread and butter 
neatly into cubes with a special knife 
of her own that was both white- 
handled and small. She carried each 
piece daintily to her mouth, and was 
serenely happy in her own aesthetic 
way. 

[ 82 ] 


Far Afield 


“I saw the Botanist at the post- 
office,” said Mr. Joliet, when the 
breakfast had reached the stage of 
leisurely chat. “He told me that he 
must leave for home shortly, within 
a few days, I take it.” 

“We shall miss him,” said Mrs. 
Joliet, “he seems to have been inter- 
ested in us and we in him.” 

“Its give and take with him,” her 
husband affirmed. “He acts as if 
wisdom was not all to be found in 
high places — Ansel and a few of his 
followers notwithstanding.” 

“He looks beneath the surface,” 
Josephine added. 

She left the table soon and then 
left the house, and walked aimlessly 
toward the corral. 

The cows were chewing their cuds; 
and one, to whom the cares of mother- 
hood belonged, was fondling her 
offspring, which stepped around un- 
steadily and viewed the situation in 
its fresh, untaught fashion. Josephine 
patted it on the little bump of curi- 
osity between the rudimentary horns, 
•and talked caressingly. 


[ 83 ] 


Far Afield 


“She’s just as much mine as yours, 
Whiteface. You may as well learn to 
accept the fact. Frisky Bossy*? Frisky, 
now; patient bye-and-bye. She hasn’t 
had to lament for days, because of 
children sold away and not to be 
found.” 

Josephine threw her arms over the 
neck of old Whiteface and rested her 
head there. When she lifted it, the 
light in her eyes shone through tears. 
The large, bovine eyes turned to her 
preached faith and patience, — no 
more; there was no more to be 
preached — only something also of the 
sweetness of the canon, of the suns and 
dews, the old oaks and sycamores; 
and the placid eyes told of those in 
the June morning. 

“You’ll be with me yet,” Josephine 
murmured, “and all the rest will keep 
on just the same.” 

She walked through the gate and 
stood by the barranca where she had 
thrown the boquet far into the dark- 
ness that first evening, putting away 
dreams. After all the strenuous 
denial, life had become a dream-land 

[ 84 ] 


Far Afield 


where flitted rainbow-winged thoughts 
and fancies in an atmosphere of 
romance; till doubts, like shadows 
had obscured the visions, and grave 
Reason had turned her face toward 
the Valley of Realities. She glanced 
toward the road, and a figure seen 
there brought a flush to her cheeks, 
and sent her hurrying back to the 
house. 

Any questions in regard to her 
long absence so early in the morning 
were forgotten in the hasty putting 
of the room in order before the 
morning caller should appear. 

“Here, Ellen and Benjy,” said Mr. 
Joliet, “we’ll feed the hens. He’ll 
want to talk botany.” 

“Probably he comes to see you, 
father,” his daughter said protestingly. 

However, only the two women were 
left to greet the refugee. There was 
something in his face and voice that 
prepared them for his brief account 
of why he had left the Holt’s. 

“One would think we were living in 
the wilderness!” Mrs. Joliet con- 
cluded. 


r 85 ] 


Far Afield 


Josephine found it hard to curb 
her anger at the ill-will that had been 
shown and at the unknown peril in 
wait. 

“It is that Stamfield matter !” she 
declared. “They are jealous of any- 
one who does not -agree with them, or 
has better standards than they.” 

“And you risked coming up here!” 
Mrs. Joliet exclaimed. 

The subject of her pity did not 
dwell upon his risks and did not say 
anything about aid. He scarcely pro- 
tested at his usage. For what , then, 
had he sought the canon? Mrs. Joliet 
had had her surmises, unverified by 
Josephine; and now they prompted 
her, with friendly insight, to leave 
the room at the first excuse. 

Mr. Joliet came in from out-of- 
doors and was told in the kitchen of 
the warning the Easterner had re- 
ceived. 

“So this is what you get by trying 
to help!” he said, entering the front 
room and clasping the visitor’s hand 
vigorously. “I’m not proud, just now, 
as you can imagine, to be classed as 
[ 86 ] 


Far Afield 


a citizen of El Quieto, — it makes me 
want to pull up stakes. And yet, they 
are decent enough usually. It’s the 
old clan spirit! That defies courts 

and justice I’ve differed 

from them now and then, and lived to 
tell the tale; but they are mightily 
aroused this time, and intend to take 
the law into their own hands, I can 
see. It is well to be on your guard,” 
he advised. “You are safer up here 
than down there, and are welcome to 
stay just as long as you find it con- 
venient.” 

“I may be tempted by that offer,” 
Davenport replied, “but I do not want 
to involve anyone else in this trouble, 
and shall not stay long. Let us hope 
that your support will not be needed, 
but I know that I can count on it.” 

He was surprised at the intensity 
of feeling on his behalf, at the flushed 
face and resonant voice. Country 
people often surprise city people by 
the keen personal interest they mani- 
fest in them and their affairs. 

“I may be as useless as a fifth wheel, 
but I shall go along with you as far 

[ 87 ] 


Far Afield 


as the town,” Mr. Joliet said with 
decision, and drew a revolver from 
the table drawer and looked at it 
critically. “I’m inclined to stand by 
anyone who has the courage of his 
convictions; especially when I agree 
with him; besides, we’re not indiffer- 
ent to the fact that you have run a 
good deal of risk to say good-bye. . . . 

One does not want to think of 

it; but I suppose the chances are 
against our meeting again on this 
planet after you leave us. You’ll not 
care to return to El Quieto, and we’re 
fast here, so far as I know. But. . . .” 

Mrs. Joliet motioned to her hus- 
band from outside the door, and he 
left his statement incomplete. 

Davenport turned toward Josephine. 
“I should have started for the East 
in a few days; they might have saved 
themselves the trouble of taking 
matters into their own hands,” -and 
then he explained about the letter 
from home and Uncle Nicholas. “It 
would have been impossible for me to 
stay away any longer. My place is 
there, and I am anxious to be back.” 
[ 88 ] 


Far Afield 


Suddenly his face became illumin- 
ated with feeling. “I am going away, 
Josephine, — but to return, if you will 
give me encouragement. If only I 
might find words to tell you how 
much I love you.” She heard his 
words and her heart rejoiced; a sense 
of the abiding Goodness reached to 
the very core of her being; the Angel 
of Peace brushed her with her wings 
in passing, but there was no detaining 
word. She was gazing through the 
window in front of her at something 
outside, and her face had grown pale. 
Davenport came to her side. 

“It means more,” she said, but he 
did not understand. 

A shrill and peculiar whistle as- 
sailed their ears. 

“Be careful!” she cautioned, laying 
a hand on his arm as he was moving 
toward the window. “They will see 
you.” 

The shrill whistle, like the bugle 
call of Rhoderick Dhu had brought 
forth a man from every rock and bush 
— or so it seemed to their surprised 
imagination. In fact but eight men 

[ 89 ] 


Far Afield 


moved into line. They wore masks, 
and h-ad turned their coats as a further 
disguise. One of their number acted 
as a leader, and there was evidently 
some plan of action. The malevolent 
vigor in their manner of raising their 
arms and brandishing the sticks they 
carried, and their grotesque -appear- 
ance brought to Josephine’s excited 
fancy whatever she had read of clan 
warfare, Ku-klux-raids, or mountain 
feuds. One carried a rude banner on 
which was neatly printed the threat, 
DOWN WITH MEDDLERS. The 
isolation of the spot made them bold. 

Davenport was not excited. He 
was trying to adjust his exalted mood 
of a moment ago to the emergency. 
There were startling new actualities 
to be met with — perhaps to be grap- 
pled with — but something else was 
still uppermost in his mind. 

“They interrupted what I wanted 
to say,” he began impatiently. 

“There is time, if you act quickly,” 
Josephine admonished, “to reach the 
barranca at the rear of the house and 
escape. The trail you know at the 

[ 90 ] 


Far Afield 


top of the ridge leads down to Bonne- 
vale’s. We can detain them and will 
try to keep them off the scent. Don’t 
wait,” she urged. “You can’t depend 
upon them. They will try to hu- 
miliate you if nothing else.” 

“There is a limit to what they can 
do or will do,” he assured her. 

She tried to make him see the need 
for swift action. “You can’t depend 
upon them. They may carry you 
miles -away and leave you in the 
mountains,” she warned him. 

His answer was more determined 
than her arguments. Something within 
him was aroused. “I’ll stay here and 
face it out.” 

The maskers moved forward and 
stationed themselves one at each of 
three sides of the house and five in a 
row at the front. 

“What scare-crow plan is this?” 
Mr. Joliet’s voice could be heard 
from the kitchen. “They want Daven- 
port.” Josephine thought the object 
of their search too oblivious to his 
danger. It looked to her as though 
his chance to escape unharmed from 

[ 91 ] 


Far Afield 


the scheme of his pursuers was doubt- 
ful. 

“How could we get a clue to your 
whereabouts if they should compel 
you to go with them?” she questioned 
anxiously. “You might drop bits of 
paper along the way — but it’s too 
windy.” She went out, and returned 
with a small package of rice. 
“Sprinkle this from time to time 
•along the trail,” she advised. 

“Rice? I consider it a good omen,” 
he said as he took it. “I am grate- 
ful for your care.” 

She hurried to the table and open- 
en the drawer from which her father 
had taken the revolver earlier in the 
morning. She knew that it was 
loaded. 

“I’ll put it where you can get it 
easily; I do not know what’s best to 
do.” Her protective instinct was 
•awake but suggested no line of de- 
fense, and she was relieved when her 
father came in and took control of 
affairs. He was equal to almost any- 
thing, she thought. 

“You stay here, Davenport,” her 

[ 92 ] 


Far Afield 


father directed, “and I’ll see what 
impression I can make on the jingoes. 
I know these fellows best, and they 
know me. You’ll need all your wits; 
for this case is not in any of your 
books of jurisprudence I’ll be bound. 
Keep cool, success lies there.” Mr. 
Joliet felt the responsibility of steer- 
ing this Easterner through the dan- 
gerous rapids of self-centered pas- 
sion, prejudice and rancour. “They’re 
neighborly enough most times,” com- 
mented Mrs. Joliet, who had come 
into the sitting room. “If we only 
wanted something of them now , 
they’d go out of their way to ac- 
commodate us.” 

Mr. Joliet could be heard talking 
to the men outside: 

“You know well that he is an hon- 
est man; and yet you treat him as if he 
were a criminal. You know me; you 
know I’m not going to hand over a 
friend and a guest in my house with- 
out a struggle.” 

They did not underestimate his 
prowess. They knew his indepen- 

[ 93 ] 


Far Afield 


dence of mind; but they had got 
along pretty well nevertheless. 

“You’re outside the law,” he per- 
sisted. “You ought to have learned 
a lesson in this valley.” 

“We don’t want you folks,” one 
answered in a muffled and disguised 
voice. 

They had indeed learned a lesson 
from the history of the valley, and 
plumed themselves on their modera- 
tion. The fact that they had left their 
firearms not far away, in charge of one 
of their number, gave them a sense 
of security from the law’s clutches — 
except in the case of two or three 
who had doubts, but had yielded to 
the stronger will of Ansel, their lead- 
er. 

“They’re determined to see you, 
Davenport,” he announced indoors, 
“and I suppose you’re longing to 
prove the might of the law. I’ve 
made about as much impression on 
them as a fly. Maybe some are 
doubtful by this time as to the ver- 
dict if they should be hauled before a 
court, but you can’t tell.” 

[ 94 ] 


Far Afield 


“Here I am,” Davenport said 
quietly, as he faced his enemies, 
“what is the charge?” 

The one who held the banner wav- 
ed it viciously: “No interference!” 
said another, venturing in his wrath 
to use his voice, but changing it as 
well as he could. 

“One has his trouble for his pains, 
I own,” answered the culprit. “My 
interference was to help you to stand 
on your rights without going beyond 
them. I am a lawyer and I know 
that you are preparing to run your 
heads into a noose for no compensa- 
tion. There is such a thing as law 
in the land. It has a long arm and 
it does not quit when you quit. I 
advise you to take it into considera- 
tion for your own good.” 

“You’ve advised enough!” one 
called out, “You might have discov- 
ered long ago that your advice was 
not wanted.” 

Davenport was not so cool as he 
seemed. The situation was puzzling 
to say the least, and disagreeable pos- 
sibilities lurked in the background. 

I 95 ] 


Far Afield 


Logic was powerless, and such force as 
he could bring to bear would not -avail. 

“Have the gun and revolver ready, 
Josephine,” said Mr. Joliet, and don’t 
let out the dogs, Mother. They are 
bound to have Davenport out there, 
but they are un-armed, which isn’t so 
bad as it might be.” 

“Benjy says there are two behind 
some brushes with revolvers,” Ben- 
jy’s mother explained. 

“That’s worth knowing,” mused 
Mr. Joliet. “Be sure to keep the 
dogs in; they’ll only mix things up 
worse outside. I’ll see how Daven- 
port is getting along with his parley- 
ing.” 

Josephine followed her father on 
to the porch. Mrs. Joliet called Ben- 
jy to her. Dogs and revolvers sound- 
ed ominous to her. 

“Mother thinks there’ll be an aw- 
ful time if we don’t do something. 
You’r mother’s brave and depend- 
able boy, and you must help. They’ll 
let you out, if you aim toward the 
spring with a pail;” she whispered 
the rest of the directions. 

[ 96 ] 


Far Afield 


“May be they won’t let me go,” 
said Benjy doubtfully. 

“You must try,” said his mother 
firmly. Mother hates to send you, 
but I’m sure they won’t hurt you, 
and no one else can go. Come back 
the way you go, and keep watch for 
the broom by the kitchen door,” his 
mother cautioned. She kissed the 
resolute little face. “Mother’s little 
hero!” she said encouragingly. “Go 
now, Benjy; hurry!” 

The dogs which had been yelping 
and growling, took advantage of the 
opening of the door to escape; and 
the men outside were seen scurrying 
about to evade the excited animals, 
or to catch them. Mr. Joliet suc- 
ceeded in getting hold of their col- 
lars and brought them into the kitch- 
en. 

“I don’t know why I called them 
off,” he said. 

“They’re neighbors, and they hav- 
en’t done anything yet,” Mrs. Joliet 
admonished. She had something to 
say to her husband but he did not 
wait for it. She looked through the 

[ 97 ] 


Far Afield 


window and listened. Josephine 
stood by Davenport’s side, erect and 
defiant. The passion for justice lift- 
ed her in her indignation above the 
personal; but not for long, the need 
for help was imminent. She was one 
of those who rise to an occasion with 
clearness of mind and courage. The 
men were awed more by her mood 
than by her argument. 

“You say he is not one of us,” she 
concluded; but he is one of us; you 
can’t have consideration for me, one 
of your neighbors, without having 
consideration for him, for we are en- 
gaged.” 

Mrs. Joliet could hardly believe 
her ears. It was indeed a day of 
surprises. 

Mr. Joliet stepped to his daugh- 
ter’s side and put in a word. “You 
see that changes things — from your 
own standpoint. Her happiness is 
at stake, and she is one of the Valley 
folks. You’re going beyond your own 
limits; isn’t it time to call off your 
doubtful enterprise?” 

“She’s foolin’ ” one called out, who 
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Far Afield 


had noted the surprise on Daven- 
port’s face, but they did not heed 
him. 

The men drew together as by one 
•accord and began arguing in groups 
and with their leader. There was 
plainly a division. Mr. Joliet’s help 
against the dogs and Josephine’s ex- 
alted appeal had told on them. Some 
wanted an excuse to back-down, but 
not so with Ansel. The whistle was 
sounded. He would enforce his plan 
by his insistent will, if possible. The 
two men who had been in hiding ap- 
peared — one bearing a rope, the oth- 
er revolvers. 

“Hello!” said Davenport, “that’s 
the game, is it? There’s no need for 
force.” 

Mrs. Joliet looked over beyond the 
corral and then she opened the door 
and placed the broom deliberately 
outside. Almost instantly the shrill 
and childish voice of little Benjy 
rang out “Fire! Fire!” 

“Fire! Fire!” Mrs. Joliet’s voice 
repeated, as she stepped onto the 
porch, frightened at the results of 

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Far Afield 


her plan. Had she waited too long? 
She had not meant it for any child’s 
play, but flames were leaping above 
the big brush pile, and the rising 
wind was tossing the brands among 
the dry grass and brush. 

“The barn is in danger!” Mr. Jol- 
iet exclaimed. “Boys, will you help?” 

Ansel had enough of the born lead- 
er in him not to be easily turned from 
a project. He spoke to two of the 
men in an undertone. “You watch 
him, and we’ll go.” They demurred, 
but his stronger will prevailed. 

Mrs. Joliet sank into a chair faint 
and trembling; all but the two 
guards and Davenport had gone to 
the fire. It was indeed no small 
blaze. Flames flared and swayed 
over and through and above the 
brush, and the wind tossed the brands 
far and near. The guards watched 
it uneasily, resenting the part of pas- 
sive spectators and longing to share 
the excitement of the fire-fighters. 
They turned to the captive. 

“Will you give us your word that 
you will stay here?” 

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Far Afield 


“I’ll stay, if I think you are going 
to win out; at any rate I’ll not try to 
escape, if you’ll go,” he answered. 

“You’ll be a fool not to escape,” 
one of them fired back as they left. 
They had been sick of their part in 
the fray for sometime. 

“Where’s the Botanist?” asked 
their captain gruffly. 

“We’uns ’re not going to let the 
barn burn up,” was the answer, and 
he’s square, I reckon. He’s giv his 
word.” 

The reply angered Ansel. 

“Rascals, do you think he’s going 
to stay there and be caught again? 
His honor’d be just as good here 
working under our eyes.” 

“We’uns were fools to get into this 
fracas,” one of the maskers replied 
testily. 

A smile stole over Davenport’s face 
as he sat in the shade while the mask- 
ed men fought with the flames and 
the heat. 

“Do’em good,” he said compla- 
cently to Mrs. Joliet. 

But when she left hurridly, to get 

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Far Afield 


brooms and sacks, the self-guarded 
captive felt like -a shirker. He saw 
that they were putting a wet blanket 
on the roof of the barn and he could 
stand it no longer. Soon all were 
working together with a will, advis- 
ing, co-operating, forgetting grudges 
for the time being. 

It was smothering behind the 
masks, and the men tore them of I 
and flung them into the flames, trust- 
ing to their work for safety after- 
wards. It was a good fight before all 
that was left of the brush pile was a 
mass of cinders. 

Mrs. Joliet and Josephine, who 
had carried water, hastened to the 
house to provide coffee and food for 
the blackened workers. The men 
gathered in a row on the edge of the 
porch, hungry and thirsty. 

“See here, Cap’n, you and the Bot- 
anist shake hands and call off this 
idea about interference.” The pro- 
posal came as a joke from one of the 
more friendly men. 

“I’m willing,” agreed the Botanist. 

“What say, Cap’n?” another asked. 
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Far Afield 


“All right,” said Ansel, and slow- 
ly put out his hand. “But I’ll not 
answer for consequences. I’m off! 
You can stay for the coffee if you 
want to.” 

“Reckon we’uns can,” was the sen- 
timent of the party. But all felt that 
Ansel did the only possible thing to 
save his dignity, under the circum- 
stances. Their own position might 
be equivocal; but the odor of coffee 
was convincing, and the fact that they 
had acquitted themselves well at the 
fire. 


It’s pleasant to be just by ourselves 
again,” said Ellen, seated on Daven- 
port’s knee in the calm of the after- 
noon. 

“Yes,” answered Davenport, “just 

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Far Afield 


by ourselves,” he repeated; and our 
mother deserves the victor’s wreath. 
She won the honors of this memor- 
able day.” 

“My mother, you mean,” said the 
child, questioningly. 

“Couldn’t you give me part of 
mother if sister Josephine is willing?” 

“Mother reached out to the best 
side of them; they couldn’t get away 
from her appeal; she had them fast,” 
said Mr. Joliet. 

Davenport threw back his head and 
laughed. “Today will not be soon 
forgotten in El Quieto. Its events, 
will be handed down in song and 
story, and somewhere in the future 
an epic may blossom from this adven- 
ture. I wonder how they’ll twist it 
about for the glory of the Clan.” 

“But I believe I owe something 
to the Plotters. The Fates have favor- 
ed when most they seemed to dis- 
possess. Uncle Nickolas shall see a 
mistress in the Old Place yet, hardly 
won and dearly held.” 

The End. 

[ 104 ] 


SOME DAY 

Some day, somewhere, 

Be it here, be it there, 

The dreams we have dreamed, 
And the earnest prayer 
That were born of our need, 

And were part of our creed, 

On the heights we have sought, 
Will take shape in the air; 

And the dreams we have dreamed 
Our whole life shall declare. 


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TURN THINE EYES FROM THE PAST 


Let it roll as a scroll, and then put it away; 

Put it out of thy life, it can never avail. 

With new chart for the sea, turn thy prow from 
the bay. 

Where the path is thine own, and where never 
a sail 

Of thy shadowy fearS can divert from thy 
firm-hearted way. 

Take thy course by the stars; nor bewail 

The lost home of thy youth. As a child of 
today 

Bend thy course to the port of Deep Truth, 
and there hail 

With the passport of work — that there be no 
delay — 

The wise master of craft who controls; and 
there bale 

The rich treasure of thought; and there ride 
out the gale 

And depart with thy freight as the wise that 
obey. 

There’s a task of thine own; there’s a task, 
and a tale 

To be told. There are winds of thy will, and 
the play 

Of the currents of life: Take heed on thy way! 

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